Mac and Cheese
by paradiso
Summary: Stella/Mac. There was no pun intended, she lied to herself.


**Mac and Cheese**

There are many big things in New York City.

There's the Statue of Liberty, standing tall and proud on her own _public_ island, named for her. There's Central Park, in the middle of all the action (forgive me for the pun). There are monuments and museums and memorials.

Then there's my head. It went off somewhere when I wasn't looking and grew to herculean proportions, I realized, as I sat back in my stadium seat and grimaced at Mac, who looked quite pleased.

"Come on Stella, don't be a sore loser," he said, trying to _look_ as though he was trying to contain his laughter, aimed at me of course.

And failing quite predictably, might I add.

"I am _not_ a sore loser. I'm just saying, my kid should've won," except that I _was_ being a sore loser, and all because of some stupid bet.

"Don't be so hard on yourself now."

"Why? Do you come to these shindigs often?"

In all my life, with all the knowledge I could possibly attain in such time, I don't think I'll ever be able to figure out just how Mac Taylor manages to track down the most absurd events taking place in all of New York City. Like the annual Grade-School-Children-Playing-Limbo-on-Roller-skates Championship, for example. Yet, for all that wonder, all the incredulousness that I'm sure overtakes my expression every time he invites me to one of these things, I can never find it in myself to refuse him.

So there I was, on a Friday night in a nearly-deserted stadium with Mac Taylor watching kid after kid do the splits beneath an insanely low bar (on roller blades, no less), when I have a mountain of paperwork to do, and absolutely none of the money I told Mac I'd give him if number 14 (an egotistical little redhead) couldn't flatten herself until she was just a few inches from the floor.

Mac had won.

"I'm sorry Mac, I don't have the ten," I said simply, trying to play it off with nonchalance.

But his expression grows serious, "You should know better than to make a bet when you can't cough up the money afterwards."

"What are you, the Godfather?" I joke, hoping he'll forget the money.

"I gave you _your_ ten when you won at the dog show," he said with an almost-pout, and I tried to ignore the fact that my heart just melts whenever he looks at me like that.

But this is exactly what I mean. He does this all time. Like the dog show. Our first real night out together since we joined the lab and he took me to a dog show. We ate hot dogs for dinner that night. How appropriate. Still, part of me yearns to relive the night at the dog show, the first in a string of outings. The last Friday of every month. It became our ritual. We blamed it on being overworked and needing some time to forget about the job, but my over-eagerness for the monthly events (I would be shaking with teenage-like excitement all day) told me that I knew otherwise.

Anyhow.

When it wasn't a dog show, it was some twist-ending, pretentious indie film, or a game of go-fish on a vacant autopsy table. Tonight, it was an obscure and heavily underrated sport. Anything we could bet on, really. That had become another tradition, one which always left me the victor and therefore, ten bucks richer, at the end of the night.

Except for now. Mac won. I've mentioned that, yes?

He stood up quickly and began to walk away. If I hadn't known him as well as I did, I may have actually just sat there and wondered uselessly what I had done wrong. But it was obvious. Mac was as much of a spoil-sport as I was.

"Hey, wait up," I jogged to keep up with him and ignored the dirty look that the _one_ woman sitting in the bleachers gave me at having blocked her view of the game for an epic 0.2 seconds.

Well, mostly ignored her. I studied her face and guessed that she was the mother of that stupid redhead that my nonexistent ten bucks had been riding on. I returned her dirty look. Petty, I know, but I couldn't help it.

"Mac. Hey, come on," I continue on after him, out of the stadium and into the night, "What time is it."

"Don't change the subject."

"I'm just-" I sigh, "Please Mac, give it a rest, you'll get your ten dollars on Monday morning, I promise."

"That doesn't seem quite fair, Stella Bonasera. As I recall, on every single one of the... let's see... eight, no nine, occasions that I've lost a bet to you, I've paid up immediately, and I expect you to do the same now."

"Well what would you like me to do then?" I smirked, playing along with whatever game he had in mind, "I can't just pull inanimate objects from thin air, like you can, Copperfield."

"That's the second pop-culture reference you've made tonight, I guess you think you're on a roll."

"Whatever you say, Taylor."

"Well you heard me. I won the bet, you owe me. So what's it going to be?"

He was just trying to get me to loosen up with the whole thing, and there's nothing childish or immature about that. But the way he was going about it was just winding me up tighter.

"I could make you dinner," I said without even thinking first, because obviously if _any_ thought had gone into the question at all, it would've never been asked.

He stopped walking and stared at me for a moment looking slightly more surprised than I was at my oh-so smooth suggestion.

"Dinner?"

"Yes, dinner. My apartment's only a couple of blocks from here, we could swing by. I'll whip something up," I wanted to stuff my fist down my throat before I suggested that we elope to the countryside.

For some reason, I was being incredibly helpful tonight. It was awful. So I was a little relieved when Mac chuckled softly, alleviating the awkwardness of the situation. He looked at me like he was going to except that offer.

Which isn't a surprise really, because a moment later he did.

And that's why, at ten o' clock, on the last Friday of the month of October, I lead Mac up to my apartment on the twenty-first floor for dinner.

Certainly not for any other reason.

--

"Do you need any help in there?" I heard him call from the living room.

"Um..." I scrambled for words, "No."

He didn't reply. Which was good because "um" and "no" were really all I had in stock at the moment, especially in the way of _food_. Allow me to explain.

I'm not really a fan of grocery shopping. Before the age of eighteen, I'd never even _been_ grocery shopping. Like, actually walking into the place, getting a cart, buying enough food to feed an army and then driving home to put it all away? Never. Then all of a sudden, when St. Basil's was finally, legally allowed to kick me out on the curb (in their defense, I'd been there awhile) I found myself in this strange new world full of twenty-eight different kinds of apples and credit card promotions.

Anyhow, I spent so much time in the lab, it was just easier for me to walk down the street to a café for a soup or sandwich at lunch time. It was a miracle that my metabolism ran faster than a greyhound on a treadmill.

What I'm trying to say here is that, my lack-of-a-ten-dollar-bill dilemma had just turned into a Mac-is-in-my-living-room-waiting-for-dinner problem. And while there was a few differences between those two, they had a couple of basic things in common, none of which were particularly helpful.

And what that came down to, was that microwave pasta (made with the healthy goodness of Styrofoam) was basically the extent of my culinary skills. And it worked out since the only thing resembling food in my apartment was Kraft Dinner. And the leftover crackers in my pocket that I'd grabbed for my soup this afternoon.

The next time I get the impulse to swallow my hand so it can stop me from doing something this _stupid_, I'm pretty damn sure I'm going to take it.

In the meantime, I turned on the faucet, hoping to mask the sounds of the microwave as I keyed in the approximate cooking time, then proceeded to grope beneath the sink for an extra plate (what do you expect? I live alone.) I retrieved a set of small, heavy (and therefore, not very practical) plates. They were an obnoxious, fire-engine red colour, which is brilliant because you know since Mac was all about that kind of thing.

Just as I was cursing myself for bringing about this evening's impending meal, a displaced thought crossed my mind, and my fingers paused over the cutlery. I wondered what Mac was doing. I pictured him standing in the living room, because he wouldn't want to sit down without my being there to sit with him. Maybe he'd picked up that lame coffee-table book that I laid out there six years ago when I moved in, back when I was still living under the pleasant delusion that I would actually have company from time to time.

In six years, Mac was the first person I'd ever invited over for dinner.

It was no mystery why.

--

A 3rd Grade Detective Bonasera reminded me suddenly that Mac was once a fan of lemon-flavoured, iced tea.

I poked my head out of the kitchen to see if I could confirm that myth, "Do you like lemon iced tea?"

He looked up at me from the 1996 edition of the Guinness Book of World Records (I told you it was lame) with surprise, "How'd you know?"

I shrugged, "I don't, there's some in the fridge."

"Sure," he hesitated, "Are you positive you don't need any help?"

There was something suspicious in his eyes, and I realized that it was lurking there because after I shut the fridge door, I turned the water off too. Which meant that he could hear the microwave as it went off, beeping almost endlessly.

"Mac, I'm cooking dinner for _you_ remember? Not the other way around."

"Right," but he had that guilty look on his face, the same one he wore when he handed me the paperwork that was rightfully mine.

I opened the door to the microwave and nearly felt nauseas at the distinct smell of Kraft Dinner that smacked me in the face.

For once, the guilt almost killed me.

--

To my utmost surprise, Mac said nothing when I lay a steaming plate of processed macaroni and cheese in front of him.

The silence was almost unbearable. He just sat there, spooning bite after bite of the alleged food into his mouth, chewed (convincingly) and then swallowed.

Mac Taylor might've been the bravest, most polite man that I'd ever met.

I took the opportunity to study him. He looked almost surreal in the dim light emitted by the only light bulb that worked on the tacky chandelier above us. It was slightly comedic too. He was still in his suit, a blue tie tightened around his neck, eating the same dinner as every college student in all of New York City (except for the occasional genius who could make toast). They were two things that didn't belong with each other.

"You're not eating?" he asked quietly, and my mouth nearly dropped open.

I looked down at my plate, wanting more than anything to kill myself, _Stella you idiot. Next time order pizza._

_Next time?_

The question eased itself into my head when I looked up and I almost forgave myself for having acted so strangely at the sight of his worried expression.

"Stella?" he asked again, putting down his fork and leaned forward a little.

I placed a hand over my mouth and took a moment to laugh quietly at myself. At him even, for being such a gentleman and shoving this crap down his throat, throwing his usually healthy diet off-balance. The purple change-box under my bed brought itself to attention in my mind, and suddenly I had a wondrous idea that would save us both from having to actually finish this dinner.

Without a word I rose from the table and scrambled to my room. I pulled the change box from beneath my bed without being able to recall when I'd last deposited anything into it. But it was heavy and so I felt hopeful. I tried not to cry as I fished out numerous dollar bills, counting to ten silently before returning to the dining room where Mac was standing (again).

"Mac," I said quietly, inching closer and pressing the money into his hand, "Go home."

He looked down at the money in his hand like I'd just handed him a million and he was too shocked to say anything about it. Or maybe this was just a moment of reflection he'd decided to indulge in before laughing in my face. Before throwing this whole evening in my face even, because well, I deserved it.

"What's happening, Stella?" he asked, softer than before, as though he'd realized like I had, that this evening had suddenly taken a drastic turn.

"Nothing," I smiled, "It's just... this is stupid. There's the ten, you can leave."

"You don't want me here?" he tried to tease, to make me smile for real, as though he could sense that the grin plastered across my face was as artificial as the cheese on our plates.

He wasn't forceful, he never is. Within the next few moments he was back at the table, eating Kraft Dinner like none of this had happened. The ten dollars lay forgotten next to his plate.

"Come sit," he said without looking at me, and I could do nothing but dumbly obey.

It was the first time I'd ever enjoyed a meal in this apartment.

--

"Next time, I promise, I'll take you somewhere nice," I joked easily afterwards as he helped me with the dishes, "No Kraft Dinner."

"I like Kraft Dinner," he joked right back.

"Well yes, but you don't _have_ to like it. You know how to cook. I don't really have a choice."

I was on my the last fork when our hands brushed accidentally. I'm used to the contact really, the _intended_ contact. A simple pat on his shoulder, a quick, reassuring hug after a long day. I could deal with that. But this was something else. I flinched in shock and then hoped to God he didn't notice.

I was a fool for hoping that for that though, Mac noticed everything, all the time. Hence the job and his title.

"S-sorry," I said more shakily than I had intended and turned away to place the last red dish in place.

"Stella," his hand was on my shoulder, and I realized that it was the first time he'd ever touched _me_ first, "What happened tonight?"

The truth was, I didn't know. But when I turned around he was just a few inches away, tilting his head just slightly so that he could look me in the eye, and I knew that I had to at least try to answer him.

A number of things came to mind. The brief second at the sink where I allowed my mind to wander back to my childhood and reminisce the things that I had never done, the things that had never happened to me because of my damned bad luck. The anticipation that had nearly caused me to explode all day long every single time I'd reminded myself of today's outing with Mac. The immature teenager inside of my stomach who keeps releasing a cage full of butterflies whenever he comes near. On occasion, there's bullfrogs hopping around in my stomach too, something that I don't really appreciate, but kind of look forward too when the moment is right.

"I was just sad," I said simply, leaning back against the counted and putting my weight on my hands against the cool surface.

"Sad?"

"And a little embarrassed," I looked down and blushed, "You know... Kraft Dinner."

"I said I liked dinner."

"Mac," I swatted his shoulder without predicting that my hand would stay glued there, "You don't have to be so nice. I know that the macaroni was crap."

"Still," his lips brushed against my cheek, "Dinner was nice."

--

I won't lie, by the time _Leno_ rolled around, the evening had turned up.

So did my head, as the commercial came on and I found myself with another one of those desperate urges to just _look_ at him, "Hey," I said.

"What's up?"

"You, apparently," I giggled like a school girl, "It's late."

"I don't have to work tomorrow."

"You don't _ever_ have to work. You've got like what, a million years of vacation time piled up?"

"Just about."

Then there was this moment, or maybe I was just fooling myself, and there was nothing there between us as we sat there, my head on his shoulder for God knows how long. I'm cautious by nature, which was the only thing that _stopped_ me from tilting my head up just a little bit further – surely our lips would meet then, and it would all be over.

But as I continued to look up at him, I was filled with another kind of anticipation, the kind that I'm used to ignoring whenever we lock eyes in the lab or on the street.

Those times when I want so bad just to lean in and kiss him.

It was one of those times.

I threw caution to the winds.

--

He didn't move. Didn't respond at all, and I stopped pushing after that awful moment of rejection and moved away from his face. I couldn't ignore the fact that my one side was still pressed up against his, but I could at least try not to be _too_ awkward about it. Pretend that the word "awkward" would probably be forever ingrained in his mind if he so much as looked at me ever again after tonight.

And I wondered to myself if I would forever look back on that kiss and the way he just sat there, unresponsive, when I confessed everything I felt for him with one single gesture and think, _Mac Taylor, what a gentleman._

Apparently, he had other ideas.

"Stella, how long?" he asked, the words barely reaching my ears, but striking me at the heart.

And it had been so long since the day that I first realized that I was completely in love with Mac Taylor that I'd forgotten the exact date, so I lied, "Not long."

"You're lying," he said in a low, almost angry, tone.

I could feel a tear roll down my cheek, "Yeah. I am."

I barely felt the couch move as he got up from his seat. But the sound of the closing door I think did more than kill me.

--

A knock at the door brought me back to life fifteen minutes later, and as I rose to answer it, I forbade myself to think for even a split _second_ that it was Mac.

But he has a way of surprising me.

"May I come in?" his head was bowed as I stepped aside, "That was rather rude of me, Stella. I'm sorry. Do you mind that I'm still here?"

"Um, no..." my two favourite words, again.

"Then..." he was close again, I couldn't take much more of this, "Forgive me. But you were the cook tonight and well, you know what they say."

No I didn't. I didn't know what "they" say. At the moment, I didn't know much of _anything_ because my mind shorted out completely the second he leaned in close – the same way I had on the couch just minutes ago – and pressed his lips to mine.

Which was a pleasant surprise, but a surprise nonetheless.

"Forgive the pun," he whispered when he pulled back all too soon, his forehead resting against mine.

At that moment I was filled with such a wide range of emotion that I couldn't think to forgive him for a mistake that he hadn't made, or do much of anything else really. I tried to sort through this metaphysical overload, tried to poke my head up above the water and look him in the eye and say _something_ at least.

"I'm sorry..." I tried, because when all else had failed, I decided to apologize, "I don't really know what to say."

"That's alright, I know the feeling. Just let it sink in."

Sink in it did. There was Mac. There was myself. We were in my doorway, and his hands were resting gingerly on my waist, his cheek against mine.

It was wonderful.

"Forever, Mac," I clarified, "I've loved you forever."

"Then I guess we're even."

I smiled against his lips.

--

"Hey," I said once we'd managed to separate, "Guess what?"

"What?"

"Dinner..."

He groaned inwardly, "Can we not go back to that?"

"I thought you liked my mac and cheese?"

"Please don't-"

"Personally, I don't mind a little _mac_ on it's own. No cheese necessary."

"That's terrible, Stella. I forbid you to ever make use of that pun."

"You started it," I pecked at his lips with my own.

"You're right. I'm punderful, aren't I?"

I laughed out loud at that, because it was just hilarious coming from him at ten to midnight, when we'd finally let go of all our inhibitions and our defense mechanisms and our fears and our excuses.

Needless to say, after that, I saw him for breakfast, lunch and dinner more often than just the last Friday of every month.

**fin.**

_July 2008._


End file.
